


if you choose to stay

by Singulite



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) Backstory, M/M, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 19:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16271243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singulite/pseuds/Singulite
Summary: “My father never understood.  Living a lie…it festers inside of you, like poison.  You have to fight for what’s in your heart.”The elf’s smile broadened, eyes crinkling earnestly.  “That’s a testament I hope to live by someday.”At that last word, Dorian’s brow perked.  “Someday?”Cyr’s face fell for a moment—just a moment—but it was more than enough for Dorian to pick up on.  “What?”“Well, now one can’t help but wonder what the Inquisitor is so hesitant to share,” he teased, leaning in with a kittenish smile.  “What lurks in the dark depths of your heart, Lavellan?  Is there a lover you yearn for but cannot have?”— The Inquisitor finds himself falling in love, and he has no idea what to do about it.





	1. after haven

**Author's Note:**

> Edit (06/10/19): The final edit of the current work is finished! I've decided that I'm actually going to be deleting all my previous chapters and reposting the new, updated chapters. I'll be extremely sorry to lose your wonderful comments on those chapters (shout out to users Rzen, TheMetalVetruvian, and the anon named "Dorian and Lavellan sitting in a tree", I love you all ❤️), but I just want this thing to be clean and easy to access. 
> 
> For those following this fic, the bulk of the original content is still the same (except for chapters not featuring Dorian), but I’ve redone some of the dialogue and sewn some plotholes back together. It’s not necessary to reread everything, but if you want to, there’ll be some new content. The brand-new chapter is chapter five. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience! I truly appreciate it! ❤️❤️

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dalish Herald meets the Tevinter pariah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: N/A

There were a lot of things for Cyrran Lavellan to process.  Too many, in fact. The attack by Corypheus, the destruction of Haven, the near dismantlement of the templars, the chaos from Redcliffe, and the rise of these Venatori mages were only a few of the most pressing.  How many had died? How many injured? He was the symbol of a people driven from their home with fire and wrath, now left to fend for themselves against an impossible army of powerful mages and a centuries-old deity, and they had nothing but the clothes on their backs and the weapons in their scabbards.  How were they supposed to survive?

The cold of the storm was crushing, even as he sat a foot from the fire, fur draped over his shoulders.  The lyrics of Mother Giselle’s song still rung in his head, its similarities to an old Dalish song winding a gibberish mess of Common and Elven words through his mind.  The people singing at him was enough to make him uncomfortable, but the kneeling was what really dug uncomfortably deep in his gut. The terror of meeting Corypheus face-to-face still gripped his lungs with an unyielding strength, too potent to ignore.  And the refugees were treating him like a hero. He’d attempted to be brave —using himself as a distraction as the others fled—but, in all honesty, he did it more out of obligation than a willingness to be self-sacrificing. _ Halam’shivanas.  _  Now more than ever, he felt like a stranger in his own body, too tied to reality to escape his fate.  How would it have gone, he wondered, if he’d been martyred back there, trying to save the refugees? A dreamless Fade walk seemed preferable to this.

He heard the crunch of footsteps approaching behind him, steeling himself for another lecture of faith or responsibility being loaded into his arms, but he wasn’t prepared for the hand on his shoulder instead of a greeting.  He jumped back from the touch, tossing an accusatory glare to whoever it belonged to. The man took a step back, surprised, and held his palms up in mock surrender, mustache twitching with a small smile. “My apologies, Herald.  I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Cyr considered the man before him, brow furrowed with a myriad of emotions.  Dorian Pavus was his name, if he remembered correctly. The one who’d brought warning of Calpernia and the other Venatori.  He’d mentioned something about Redcliffe, and a mage called Alexius, and a whole string of stories that were hard to piece together.  Cyr didn’t know if it was the panic that’d blurred his memory or the concussion he’d almost certainly procured in his escape. “‘S alright.  No harm.”

Pavus smiled wider, almost genuinely, and bowed in to better meet Cyr’s eyes, gaze glinting in the firelight.  “Would you mind if I join you a moment?”

The Herald’s blink fell close to a squint in suspicion, but he hoped the dim light wasn’t enough for the other man to catch it.  “Go ahead.”

Pavus settled down, flitting the tail of his cloak from beneath him, as Cyr brought the bear fur back up around his shoulders, using the adjustment to mask the way he inched away from the man.  “So,” the human began, fidgeting uncomfortably with his trousers touching the dirt, “I wanted to let you know that Chancellor Roderick passed away.” Cyr’s eyes met his, condolences exchanged without words.  “He made it until we set up camp, and then…”

Cyr sighed, gaze casting back to the fire as he gripped the fur tighter around him.  “Andraste protect him.”

He could see the other man’s head quirk in his peripheral vision.  “You’re Andrastian, Herald?”

The irony of the surprise in his statement spurred a smirk.  “Doesn’t matter what I believe, does it? Roderick was Andrastian.  She would be the one to protect him.”

“Your belief is likely the most important in the Inquisition,” Pavus stated.  

Cyr glanced to him warily.  He very much did  _ not  _ want to get into this conversation with yet  _ another  _ shem.  “Roderick’s beliefs are what will guide him in his afterlife.  He was a man of good intentions, and if his religion is just, he’ll find happiness.”

Thankfully, the man seemed satisfied with that answer.  Cyr didn’t have enough energy to delve into how he saw the world.  Spirits never liked to make life easy, especially for one so carelessly tossed around by manmade prophecies and the whims of the Fade.

“No matter his beliefs, I just wanted to let you know,” Pavus concluded, folding his hands across his knee to lean more casually on the ground.  Somehow, he managed to keep his back straight and posture dignified in the pose. “I also wanted to inquire about my presence here, in the Inquisition.”

Cyr’s brow quirked.  “What’s the inquiry?”

“Well, not so much an inquiry as it is a proposition,” he corrected, readjusting his position near the campfire.  “I understand you’ve conscripted the templars, but the Venatori require more than brutes on lyrium to take down. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

“I don’t handle recruitment,” Cyr dismissed.  “Consult with our mage’s ambassador, Adaar. She’s the qunari with the ram horns.”

“Modesty aside, Herald, I am a very skilled mage, and I intend to serve as a valuable asset to the Inquisition so long as I’m not dismissed as simply another southern apostate,” Pavus insisted, leaning into the conversation with fervor.  “I want to make sure I’m able to do as much as I can. And, admittedly, I’ve a vested interest in the Venatori.”

“Southern apostate,” Cyr echoed as he spent a moment tangling with his thoughts.  He wasn’t too sharp at the moment, but the tone Pavus had suggested a distaste for southerners.  “What’re you, Tevinter?”

The man stared at him for a beat.  “Was that…not obvious?”

A heavy unease settled in the pit of his chest.  Of course. It made sense now. The lilt of his words, the accent, the knowledge of the Venatori.  And the  _ style _ .  What in Mythal’s name was with his outfit?  “Ah. I see.”

Pavus grinned, something between amusement and derision.  “Have you never met a Tevinter, Herald?”

“I try my best to keep away from them,” Cyr responded pointedly, letting the fur slip a bit down his shoulders to show the tips of his ears, “if you can tell  _ why _ .”

“I can only imagine my countrymen are most hospitable.”  The sarcasm was evident, but the humor fell flat. The Herald  _ really  _ wasn’t in the mood.  “You’re…Dalish, correct?  That’s the term here?”

“It’s the term  _ everywhere _ .  Not that you’d know.”

The smile slipped from the man’s face, shoulders broadening in defense.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Any clan that willingly ventures anywhere  _ near  _ the Imperium has a Keeper dumber than a nug,” he said with a barely-managed disdain, scowling back at the fire.  “I wouldn’t expect you to know.”

The contempt was not lost on the other man, his brow falling to shade his stare as he spoke.  “And I should not expect  _ you  _ to know anything of the Imperium or its people.”

Cyr stole a glance back at Pavus, the silence between them growing stale with a low-burning malice.  He had to admit that the man  _ was  _ quite helpful in their attempt to protect Haven —and, if the corpses of the Venatori he’d left in his wake were any indication, quite powerful—but that didn’t give any room for his leery gaze to falter.  

Pavus was the first to relent.  “Herald—”

“I’m not going to tell you to leave,” Cyr interrupted, roping back his irritable snap and letting it simmer down in the cold of the snow.  “In fact, I encourage you to stay. We would be fortunate to have you in the Inquisition. But trust is  _ earned _ , Lord Pavus, not simply given.”

The man’s expression read admonishment, but a spiteful obstinacy wove through his words: “I risked my life for a warning and fought alongside you against perilous odds.  Is that not enough to earn your trust?”

“The trust of the Inquisition?  Sure,” Cyr allowed. “ _ My  _ trust?  Not quite.”

Pavus looked as if he wasn’t sure how to respond.  Cyr tried not to look pleased. With a light scoff and an indignant glare, Pavus asked, “And how might one go about earning your trust, Herald?”

“Well,” he began, “refraining from the patronization and removing yourself from the ‘Tevinter’ image would prove your sincerity.”

Though he forced a smile, there was little humor in the man’s eyes at the comment.  “I am not my country.”

“Nor I my people.  That doesn’t stop the Imperium’s slave trade and their affinity for subjugating elves, does it?”

“Have you considered, Lord Herald, that there is a  _reason_ I left Tevinter?” Pavus said, a welling frustration dripping from his tongue.  “Not to mention the south’s own oppression of your people.  You have alienages.  Slums, both human and elven.  The desperate have no way out.  Back home, a poor man can sell himself.  As a slave, he can have a position of respect, comfort, and could even support a family.  Some slaves are treated poorly, it's true, but do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?"

“‘Treated  _ poorly _ ’?” Cyr mimicked incredulously.  “Is  _ that _  what you call it?”

“Abuse heaped on those without power isn’t limited to Tevinter, my friend.”

“Agreed,” the elf said with a slight cock of the head, struggling to keep his voice at a low volume, “but the existence of one evil does not excuse another.  What does your flippant attitude do for the slaves in Tevinter?”

“I work where I can.  My attitude, as  _ flippant  _ as you may consider it, is not too popular back home.  Slavery is a part of life for the people of the Imperium.  It’s never questioned. I doubt even most  _ slaves  _ question it.”

Cyr could feel his rage boiling to the brim.  The urge to snap, scream, lunge, and attack was a restless energy he only quelled by clenching his fists, reeling in a deep breath, and replying, “That doesn’t excuse it.”  With heavy legs, he struggled to his feet, pulled the fur back up around his neck, and gave a small, sardonic bow, maintaining his low glare. “Now, if you’ll pardon me,  _ Master  _ Pavus.”

Before the man could retort, Cyr stomped back toward his cot, eyes pressed shut to avoid contact with Mother Giselle or Cassandra or Cullen or anyone else who might want to drag him into another talk.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t another human he had to worry about. Before he could reach his bedding, Solas stepped from around the canvas tent and brushed a hand against the crook of Cyr’s elbow, getting his attention with a start.  “A word?” he asked as a gentle demand, not waiting for a response. His levelled gaze and longer strides towards the edge of the encampment were telling of a veiled urgency that only helped to stir the anxiety in Cyr’s stomach. Reluctantly, he followed.  

Solas’ steps were light as air as he made his way to a lone torch in the dark past the camp.  With a flick of the wrist, he ignited the Veilfire and shaped a palm against its form, folding his hands behind his back as Cyr approached.  Cyr’s gait felt especially haphazard and clumsy as he approached, the limp from his splinted ankle accentuated against the older elf’s weightless stance.  There was something almost otherworldly about the way Solas carried himself, like his ventures through the Fade had left him with more than just knowledge and memories.  Cyr wasn’t sure how to feel about him.

“The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting,” he began, almost with admiration.  Cyr blinked in surprise at  _ ‘our people.’   _ It wasn’t too long ago that Solas had so blatantly disparaged the Dalish and admitted his alienation from other elves.  “Their faith is hard-won, lethallin,”—Cyr would never say it, but that name coming from Solas always gave him a fleeting sense of comfort and home—“worthy of pride…save one detail.”

The younger elf gave a mirthless chuckle.  “There’s always  _ something _ .”

“The threat Corypheus wields?  The orb he carries?” Solas’ steady gaze bored straight to the root of Cyr’s apprehension.  “It is ours. Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.”

Cyr turned from Solas and stared to the Veilfire, head heavy with a nauseous uncertainty.

“We must find out how he survived,” Solas continued, “and we must prepare for their reaction when they learn the orb is from our people.”

Slowly, Cyr lifted the open palm of the Anchor and held it to the Veilfire torch, a strange warmth licking at his fingers from stray sparks of blue.  It used to hurt to be near, but his work with Solas on focusing Mana and exploring the Fade had lent itself to what little ability he had. The heat of the magic spread ease through the nerves of his hand, but the Anchor’s pulling ache remained present in contrast; a begrudging reminder of his reality.  “What  _ is  _ this orb, anyway?” he asked hesitantly, letting his splayed hand fall to a closed fist.  “And how do you know about it?”

“Such things were foci, said to channel power from our gods,” he began, a forlorn sense of loss trickling in through his words.  “Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remain are references in ruins and faint visions of memory in the Fade; echoes of a dead empire.”  He shifted on his feet, face steeling. “But however Corypheus came to it, the orb  _ is  _ elven, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith.”

Cyr’s hand dropped to his side.  “The one good thing I figured might come out of this is gaining a foothold in society.  A Dalish elf, the Herald of Andraste? A clear reminder of the legends, isn’t it? Andraste’s uprising with the elves?”  He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to cease the shiver of his hunched frame against the wind. “No shem’s gonna give two shits about ancient stories or our own excuses.  All they’ll see is their favorite scapegoat.”

“I suspect you are correct.  It is unfortunate, but we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies.”  Despite the mood, a small smile graced his lips. “Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow.”

Cyr let out a tight sigh of trepidation.  As always, Solas’ vague words left something foreboding in the air.  “Any suggestions?”

He was slow to choose his words, thoughts dancing across his face in the blue glow of the fire.  “By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it. Changed  _ you _ .”  His stare was pointed and intense, but Cyr knew he referenced only the image of the Herald, not the elf himself.  “Scout to the north. Be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. A place where the Inquisition can build.   _ Grow _ .”  His gaze grew distant, almost longing.  “Skyhold.”

Hm.  Skyhold?  Well, the name was certainly awe-inspiring.  “Can it hold against Corypheus?”

Solas’ gaze held innumerable responses.  The only one Cyr could intelligibly glean was that he might be getting ahead of himself.  “Only time will tell, lethallin.”


	2. becoming inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and the newly-named Inquisitor come to an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: canon-typical violence (no gore)

The journey to Skyhold was a trying one.  Cyr’s sprained ankle and thin linen clothes left him little more than a limping, shivering mess at the front of a herd he could barely lead.  Reaching the keep was more than relief; it was coming home. The Inquisition immediately sank itself into every corner and crevice of the castle, draping its halls with ornaments to claim it as their own.  Stalls were set with merchants and their wares, the injured were settled with the healers in tow, and soldiers pitched their tents and leapt back into training. Every last refugee seemed to find themselves a role in the hold.  All except Cyr.

Until he was named Inquisitor.

He didn’t know how to feel about the title.  Granted, he didn’t really know how to feel about  _ anything  _ anymore, but this thing especially.  There were a lot of aspects of it he had no clue how to deal with, most of them leaving him with nothing but an anxiety knotted deep in his stomach and an empty breath of smog in his chest.  Well, at least  _ that  _ was one emotion he could identify.  Anxiety.

He didn’t really want to be the Inquisitor.  It wasn’t an easily-suitable position. Sure, the quarters at the top of the keep, the good food, and the comfortable clothes were all nice, but his materialism wasn’t enough to stave off the gnawing realization that this was not really for him.  This was for Inquisitor Lavellan, not Cyrran Lavellan, the Dalish elf. Cyrran Lavellan did not head the war table, planning attacks or coordinating resolutions. Cyrran Lavellan did not confer with his professional ambassadors about the complex social situations he had to meticulously navigate.  Cyrran Lavellan did not lead troops, or organize trade systems, or settle every single damned dispute that everyone in Thedas seemed to rouse against him. That was Inquisitor Lavellan. And Cyr was not the same as Inquisitor Lavellan. They were two different beings inhabiting the same body. Just as it was when he was named Herald, he’d been unwillingly thrust into his position, and there was nothing he could do but play the part.  Obligation was his only motivator, but it wasn’t enough to keep him sane. The heavier the burden piled on his shoulders, the further he strayed from himself, depersonalization nothing less than the only constant in his life. Inquisitor Lavellan was a front. The deeper he dove, the darker it fell.

One of the only times he felt himself was when he could find a quiet spot in the rafters, roofs, or treetops and hide away from the rest of the world.  He’d grown up a hunter in thickly-floraed forests. At this point, dipping back into the shadows was basically second nature. In a keep as sparsely thicketed and heavily populated as Skyhold, where everyone was constantly tailing him, wanting his opinion on this and his recommendation for that, a good hiding spot was his only saving grace.

One of his favorite places to tuck down was the library.  The shelves were high enough and the lighting dim enough that he could climb on top of them, creep against the wall, sneak a book, and settle down for an hour or so.  Those around him were too deep in their research to notice anything peculiar, and when servants were sent searching for him, the idea of him hiding atop the shelves was a little too preposterous for them to even look his way.  

It worked  _ almost  _ perfectly.  Of course, it had to be the  _ Tevinter  _ who spotted him.  

It was a particularly cloudy day, so Cyr was edged closer to the window just to get proper lighting.  For a quick moment, he was completely absorbed in his story, and at an unexpected punchline, he couldn’t restrain an abrupt snort of a laugh.  Typically, any noise he made was just dismissed as someone else beyond the shelves that the individuals below didn’t see, but this was the one time that Pavus looked up from his papers, glancing around curiously.  Cyr instinctually slapped a hand over his mouth— _ another  _ noise he wasn’t even thinking about—and curled in tighter against the wall.  Pavus caught the second sound and glanced up toward the elf. He seemed unsure what he was looking at, having to squint for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, before his gaze finally focused and his face fell in surprise.  “Inquisitor?”

Cyr sighed in disappointment and dropped his hands to the side.  “What?”

“What are you doing?” Pavus chuckled, mustache quirking with a smile.  “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear you muttering to yourself,” he replied, stretching to let a leg dangle over the side of the shelf.  “ _ Kaffan nulsena fasat _ ?”

“Impressively close,” Pavus said, resuming a more casual stance.  “A translation would be, ‘this shit makes no sense.’”

“Yeah, you looked like you were having fun.”  Making sure no one else could see, Cyr gingerly leapt to the floor, bare feet padding with the softest sound.  “I’m sure you’d like to get back to your studies.”

“Well, actually,” Pavus said quickly, stepping ahead of the elf to keep him cornered to the bookshelves, “I would like a moment of your time.”

Cyr took in a deep, managed breath, trying not to appear as unenthused as he felt.  “What’s the matter?”

“I…feel as if we started off on the wrong foot, so to speak,” he began, attempting to show his earnesty through the couth accent and fluffy phrasing.  “I understand your wariness of me, but I would like to alleviate it, if given the chance.”

“But  _ do  _ you understand?” the elf asked, almost accusingly, tucking the book under his arms as he crossed them.  “You may want to be friendly with the Inquisitor, but simply stating yourself does not earn your pardon.”

Some of the ardor drained from the Tevinter’s face, frustration taking its place.  “Then I ask again: what do you want of me?”

Cyr took another breath and stood up straighter, trying to broaden himself before the height of the human.  “An associate who doesn’t condone slavery or the subjugation of any one race. Maybe that comes from a personal bias based on my heritage, but at the same time, I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

“Inquisitor, I do  _ not  _ condone such practices,” Pavus reiterated imploringly, as if he were repeating the point to a petulant child.  Or perhaps he was just tired of the assumptions. Cyr couldn’t know; his inclination clouded his judgement. “I simply meant that in the Imperium, it’s normalized.  Until I left, I wasn’t aware it was an object of question.”

“Just because it’s normalized doesn’t mean it’s right.  You speak dismissively, as if it’s nothing of concern.”

“That’s  _ not  _ how I mean it,” Pavus said, volume rising in just a way that silenced Cyr long enough for the man before him to reroute his thoughts.  “At least, that’s not how I mean it  _ now _ .  I’ve been considering my actions, and I realize how I might have come across as…unseemly.  I don’t intend to continue that behavior. I truly want to understand, and I would like to earn your trust, as I know I can be deserving of it.”

Cyr hesitated, considering the offer presented to him.  It wasn’t something he’d encountered before. This wasn’t someone requesting a second trade offer, or pleading for mercy after their wrongdoing against the Inquisition.  In fact, this didn’t seem to be broadly political at all. It seemed to be a man asking for a chance to better himself in a way that was frighteningly personal. This was new, uncharted territory.  Another challenge for him to face. But, this time, it was as Cyrran, not the Inquisitor.

Maybe this would be helpful.  Maybe he could deal with this.

“It’s…well, not exactly  possible __ for you to ever  _ really  _ understand,” he said slowly, shifting from foot to foot with his gaze averted, “but I appreciate your effort.  It’s just that…I’m… Well, it’s,”—he chuckled nervously—“it’s not like I have a, uh, task for you to accomplish or—or a goal for you to reach.  You know, because trust can’t just be given at a moment’s notice. So…I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t have anything to ask of you.”

Pavus’ expression eased.  “I’m the one asking forgiveness of  _ you _ , Inquisitor.”

“Alright, please, enough with the  _ Inquisitor  _ business,” Cyr dismissed with an agitated wave of the hand.  “I get enough of it from the scouts and the servants and everyone else around here.  Want my trust? You can start by just calling me Lavellan.”

The mage’s brow quirked in pleasant surprise.  “And I prefer my associates to simply call me by my first name rather than  _ Lord  _ or  _ Master Pavus _ , if you would as well.”

Cyr considered the man’s gaze, searching for something beyond sincerity, but he found nothing.  Perhaps this  _ was  _ genuine.  “Noted.”

There was a stretch of silence before Pavus realized he was blocking the way, stepping aside and allowing Cyr the room to pass.  He gave the Tevinter a sideways glance, nodded his acknowledgement, and said, “Good luck to you on your studies, Dorian.”

The elf could see something of a smile on his face.  “Here I thought we were just getting to the good part.”

 

As the days went on, Cyr found it easier and easier to separate himself from his title.  When speaking with his closest associates, he was more or less himself; in any other situation, he was the Inquisitor.  There were distinct differences that allowed him to wear the role like a mask, switching the fa ç ade of wisdom and poise on and off as he so chose.  

With Dorian, it was different.  They were somewhere between acquaintances, associates, and strained, begrudging friends, like suitors unequipped for each other yet expected to get along.  It was a strange limbo that left him unsure and discomforted. Who was he supposed to be around the man?

He didn’t expect the journey to the Hissing Wastes to be anything short of awkward.  He brought Dorian along in the party out of responsibility more than anything, knowing that the Venatori were his main goal in this entire mess, but that didn’t stop the stunted conversations from being just as stiff as he thought they’d be.  He hoped Dorian was content with uncomfortable camaraderie, because he doubted they would ever amount to anything more.

The night descended with a foreboding chill, the contrasting heat of the whipping sands barely enough to register.  Cyr very well understood why the dunes remained deserted. The unnatural fog folded over the sky left the desert in perpetual night.  The wind drove through the hills with a vengeance, noisy and surreal. Not to mention the sand that seemed to find itself in every little crack and cranny the elf had on his body; places he didn’t even know sand could feasibly  _ get _ .  The sooner these Venatori were wiped out and they were back to Skyhold, the better.

The dim orange glow against the brown terrain immediately caught the party’s eyes.  Creeping closer and gazing over the dune, they could see the spikes of helmets, the glint of armor, and the flag parading the makeshift symbol of Tevinter’s Venatori, frenzied in the heavy wind.  

“Ah, a few of my fellow countrymen,” Dorian said with a soft disdain.  “Shall we say hello?”

“It would be rude not to,” Cyr said, motioning for the others to take position.  

Dorian flanked Bull’s left as Solas took the qunari’s right and the three climbed a ways down the dunes, Cyr circling around the other direction.  Once the group was split a considerable distance with the Venatori camp between them, Cyr surveyed the scene: two warriors and three hooded figures hunched over a singular book.  Probably a few other warriors or archers asleep in the tent. An estimated eight against four didn’t present the best odds, but it was manageable. Solas and the Bull worked well under heavy blows, playing off each other between the healing and butchering, but Dorian still served as an unknown variable.  Cyr knew he was capable, but there was no familiar strategy. Hopefully, the man would just throw some spells and stay alive.

Careful not to make a noise, Cyr took his bow from over his shoulders and unsheathed the string, slowly pulling two arrows from the quiver.  He took a second to adjust his posture, straightening his arc and steadying his stance, before nocking the arrow, taking in a full breath, and drawing the string.  With an exhalation on the release, the arrow flew in a high-pitched whistle straight to the mage holding the Venatori tome, impaling his head with a grotesque sound of scraping flesh and bone.  The other mages cried out in surprise, warriors jumping to defense, as the Bull charged into the radius of the firelight, shouting something in Qunlat. Solas followed at his side, readying a protection spell, but—much to Cyr’s dismay—Dorian was nowhere in sight.

_ “Where in Fen’Harel’s sweaty ass did he go?” _  he muttered to himself in Elven, scanning the dark for any figure matching his shape.  Unfortunately, something else caught his eye. As the warriors and mages focused themselves on the Bull and Solas, two archers ran from the tent, taking in the scene with frantic movements.  The two readied their weapons and stepped back from the foray to search for the source of the enemy shot.

Cyr slowly ducked further behind the dune, notching his second arrow and pulling it taut.  His steps were calculated, sidling just out of sight, only catching their figures in the few glimpses he could manage without revealing his position.  He would never catch them off-guard until the main fight took precedence. That would take too long. Bull was busy with the warriors. Solas was struggling just to offshoot the mages.  Cyr might be able to take the three with his daggers, but he’d get an arrow to the gut before he could even make it over the dune.

He was wrought from his strategizing by the crack of static and a jarring scream.  He aimed blindly at the source, located a helmeted figure, and let his arrow fly. As he leapt and made a dash down the dunes, he saw one body crumple to the ground as the other lay dead beside it, clothes singed and flesh sizzling.  Dorian materialized from the dark, staff fizzling with electricity, aimed at Cyr. Once he recognized the Inquisitor, he lowered his staff, head cocking to the side. “What?”

Cyr didn’t realize his mouth had been left agape until he clamped it shut.  “You killed him in  _ one hit?” _

Dorian grinned boastfully.  “Impressed?”

“Hey, Boss?” Bull called from across the camp, hacking through the chest of an ice atronach as it bore down atop him.  The enemy mage was already working on another as Solas fought just to maintain the shields keeping the warriors at bay.

Cyr swore under his breath and tossed the bow back over his shoulders, unsheathing his daggers as he dashed for the cold mage.  Dorian focused on the other mage as they skulked around the battle, tome at the ready. A few quick dodges and a slit across the throat were all it took for the first mage to go down.  By the green and purple burst of light behind Bull’s hulking form and the screech of pain, Cyr could assume the other Venatori was taken care of. A few steps, and the Inquisitor was already at one of the warrior’s back, stabbing up into the exposed skin on their side, yanking back, and finishing them off.  Bull brought down his axe with a monstrous arc right on the last Venatori’s head, helmet caving, their body falling limp.

“Is anyone injured?” Solas asked, stepping over a mage corpse with little regard.

“A few bruises,” Bull muttered, examining his arms, hands splashed with blood.

“I’m alright,” Cyr called, glancing to Dorian at his lack of response.  The man stood further from the other three, knelt beside the body of the archer Cyr’s second arrow had taken down.  The elf went to meet him. “Dorian?”

The man kept his gaze locked to the Tevinter beneath him, back of his hand hovering above the body’s mouth.  “He’s still breathing.” He pulled his hand back and looked to Cyr, eyes dark. “Although barely.”

Cyr swallowed and studied the archer.  The arrow had dug surprisingly far into his back through the grooves of his armor, tearing right through the flesh, probably puncturing a lung.  His movements were miniscule—nothing more than the twitch of a finger or flutter of the eye—but they were there. He was alive, if only just.

“Well, I’m going to take the arrow out,” Cyr said slowly, struggling to gauge Dorian’s reaction as he spoke.  “He’ll bleed to death either way. Do you… I mean, did you just want me to put him out of his misery, or leave the arrow, or…?”

“Whatever’s the least painful,” he responded somberly, getting to his feet and making his way toward the others.  There was something resembling regret in his tone, which Cyr didn’t quite understand, but the request was simple enough to follow.  

Bending down and steadying himself, Cyr covered the archer’s eyes, whispered a soft,  _ “Maker ema lanaste sul ma,” _  and slipped his blade across the man’s throat.  The archer gave a wretched gasp, choked for air, and then fell limp, blood pooling in the sand.  Cyr simply wiped the wet on the man’s uniform and tugged at the shaft of his arrow, yanking it from the body without much care.

Solas was assessing the damage and Bull was examining the rest of the camp as the Inquisitor made his way back to Dorian.  The man stood before the campfire, turning the massive Venatori tome over in his hands, as if searching for something amidst the leather bindings.  Cyr stepped beside him slowly, eyes roving between his face and the book, unsure where to remain. “Are you okay?”

Dorian glanced up in surprise.  “What?”

“You seem troubled,” Cyr said, examining his blades as an excuse not to look the man in the eye.  “Besides, these men were Tevinter. It can’t be easy to kill your own people.”

Dorian took in a breath.  “It’s not, no.” His words were soft and thoughtful, the odd tone of almost-regret returned.  “The man you just put out of his misery? I knew him once. Not well, but well enough. We’d gone to the same parties; danced with the same women.”  After a pause of gentle nostalgia, he shook himself out of the daydreaming and crossed his arms decisively. “But he gave himself to Corypheus. There was no question in my mind about whether or not he must die.”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t difficult,” Cyr insisted, sheathing his knives and forcing himself to glance Dorian’s way.  “The effort hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

The mage’s expression softened, and he seemed so show something of a smile.  Or maybe it was just the shadows dancing in the firelight. “Thank you, Lavellan.”

Cyr slightly grimaced.  “I slightly regret asking you to call me by my clan name.  It might just be even more awkward than  _ Inquisitor _ .”

“Would you prefer your first name?”

“No, Lavellan will do.”  Cyr brought a hand to his chin and flashed Dorian a smile.  “My first name is reserved for those who have my  _ ultimate  _ trust.”

“Oh, so the trust is  _ tiered  _ now?” Dorian chuckled.  “If I may ask, on what level am I?”

After a moment of thought, the elf decided, “The third or forth, I’d say.  You’ll need to reach the fifteenth tier before we get to a first-name basis.”

Dorian raised a brow.  “That’s quite a climb.”

Cyr’s smile widened.  “I’m a hard man to please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translation: 
> 
> "Maker ema lanaste sul ma." = "Maker have mercy on you."
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: the Elven language is an English cipher and doesn't have a full vocabulary, so a lot of the Elven written in this story is going to be composed from my own knowledge of linguistics and this very helpful site: https://lingojam.com/ElvenDAI


	3. last resort of good men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and the Inquisitor have a discussion about magic and there's a nice family reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: canon homophobia

If there was only one good thing to come from Cyr being coerced into befriending Dorian, it was the time he could now freely spend reading. If Cyr wanted some time for himself without scuttling around in the shadows, he just came up to the library and sat himself in Dorian’s little alcove. Dorian was quite the talker; he seemed to dissuade nearly anyone who came to fetch the Inquisitor away with just a few quick excuses and a charming smile. It was quite the talent, in all honesty, but Cyr would never tell him that. If his head were any bigger, it would roll right off his shoulders.

Eventually, Cyr stopped waiting for Dorian. He would sit himself in his designated corner and pull out his book, legs crossed, engrossed in the fantasy in mere moments. Sometimes, he didn’t even notice Dorian’s entrance at all. The man would simply sit at his table and begin his studies. Few words had to be exchanged between them, but when they were, the Inquisitor enjoyed it. The discussions was rarely about any of the elf’s responsibilities or the building chaos outside of Skyhold. It was usually just about the theorems in their tomes or stories about Dorian. He sure did like to talk about himself. Cyr didn’t mind, actually. The man made it interesting in his own superfluous way. Entertaining, at least.

“Lavellan,” he began one afternoon, keeping his eyes to his papers as he spoke, “I heard a little rumor about you.”

Cyr glanced up, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Someone’s been doing some training,” he said, glancing up for only a moment, the tip of his wooden quill pressed to his chin. “As an assassin, no less.”

The elf quirked a brow. “I had to find some way to put those Venatori tomes to use.”

“I should say,” Dorian agreed with a smile. “With the amount of killing you do, a bit of flair’s a fine thing.”

Cyr fully lifted his gaze to meet Pavus’, scoffing. “I don’t kill that many people.”

“Are you joking?” The man legitimately laughed. “I’m only surprised you didn’t kill someone walking over here.”

“That’s the whole point of being an assassin, Dorian. You’re not supposed to know if I’ve killed someone.”

Dorian snickered lightly. “At any rate, if you ever intend to make it an actual profession, do tell me. The Antivan Crows have nothing on the Imperium. I know people.” He tapped the quill against his lips for a pause, smiling slow. “Keep it in mind.”

The elf chuckled. “Will do.”

“I’m not familiar with the Crows’ rules regarding the use of magic,” he continued a little too casually, the lilt in his tone suggesting something beneath, “but in the Imperium, it would only be encouraged, of course.”

Cyr hesitated, confusion settling in his expression. “Why does it matter? I’m not a mage.”

“Are you not?” Dorian asked sardonically. “Curious. I wonder why, then, Commander Helaine remains at the hold.”

Shit. Was he really so obvious? He’d asked Josie to be subtle about summoning the Knight-Enchanter. She and Solas were the only ones that knew about the training outside the Lady Commander and Cyrran himself. They didn’t even meet outside of his own living quarters. How could Dorian have possibly found out? “Who?”

The man laughed aloud, almost mockingly. “Surely you can’t expect me to believe you’re not familiar with every person of importance in the castle? Especially an elven apostate commanding respect from ex-templars.”

“Oh. That’s the commander,” Cyr said, attempting to play it off as ignorance. “It’s possible Adaar wants her here to better train the mages for melee. I don’t know.”

“Why are you lying about this?” he asked insistently, dropping his book to the table and leaning forward in his chair. “You’re the Inquisitor. No templar’s going to try to chain or kill you. You’re no more an apostate than me.”

“It’s not about that,” Cyr said quickly, not even processing the words as they spilled from his mouth. Dorian waited a beat, letting the strain drift across the silence of the alcove, the knowing glimmer in his eye driving Cyr to glance down with a scowl. “It’s…nothing.”

“Oh, is it?” Dorian’s smirk was infuriating enough to warrant a smack across the cheek. “Then why the secrecy? I do love a good mystery.”

“Because it’s…I don’t know. Weird.” Cyr swallowed and fiddled with a dog ear in the page of his book. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

“And why not? The Inquisitor: survivor of demonic possession, savior of the templars, leader of the defected Order, a mage? Imagine the gossip!” His eyes were alight with joy at the prospect. “The idea alone is enough to give me shivers.”

“Because I’m not a mage,” the elf snapped, the severity of his tone enough to wipe the smile from Dorian’s lips. “I’m just not. I have hardly any skill or ability, and it’s embarrassing, so I prefer not to talk about it, okay?”

A stretch of silence fell over the two. Though their gazes remained downward, the tension in the air was palpable. Cyr’s breaths were harsh and quickened; his heartbeat was audible in his chest. After a few moments held in suspense, he looked up at Dorian, who’s eyes had never left the elf’s face. At the sight of his glance, the elf clapped his book shut, set it to the table beside him, and started for the stairs. Dorian immediately stood and caught him by the arm, pulling him back into the corner.

“As frightfully chatty as I am,” he began, squeezing the elf’s wrist with a gentle assurance, “I promise you, I won’t tell a soul.” Cyr couldn’t help but notice how warm the man’s grip was. How soft his hand. When was the last time he’d received a touch as gentle as this? “You can trust me, my lips are sealed. You have my word.”

The elf was sure his cheeks were flushed as Pavus released his arm. He laughed anxiously and fidgeted on his feet, unsure of whether to hold or avoid Dorian’s gaze. “How chivalrous.”

“I try my best.” The man flashed another smile. “Now, please, resume your reading. I didn’t intend to interrupt.”

The Inquisitor eased back into a natural grin. “Didn’t you?”

“I was simply curious,” he replied, shrugging as he crossed his arms and leaned against the table. “As much as I enjoy watching you leave, I find myself, strangely enough, enjoying your presence.”

The elf smirked. Playful flirtation. Okay. This was something he knew how to handle. “Would you rather me sit directly on your desk to read? It might provide a better view.”

“On the desk? Oh, Lord Inquisitor, how lewd,” Dorian cooed with a grin. “I insist on somewhere more comfortable for our first time.”

“Without this romantic lighting? I don’t think so.”

“Send the scouts searching. They’ll find something eventually.”

Cyr laughed and walked back to his book, settling in against the wall. “I’ll get on that.”

Strangely, as Dorian got back to his research and the elf found his place in the novel again, he noticed his chest feeling lighter than before, limbs tingling with a peculiar kind of warmth he wasn’t familiar with. Maybe Dorian had hexed him with some sort of relaxation spell? No, that was stupid. Then why’d he suddenly felt so odd the moment Dorian had touched him?

Logically, of course, he knew what it was. Emotionally, however, he refused to believe it. It was just the addled state of a mind rattled with secrets and a body starved to be touched. That was it. He was no more charmed by the handsome face and smooth talk of the Tevinter than he was by any other half-decent shem shambling around the hold. To even legitimately consider that option was plainly ridiculous. He wasn’t supposed to even like men, much less a man like Dorian. A human? From Tevinter? Pavus was one of the least likely individuals Cyr would ever even come close to having a relationship with. There was no way. It was just a random thought floating through his distracted head. Nothing more.

So why did it spook him so much?

 

Cyrran really didn’t want to be doing this. When Mother Giselle had approached him about Dorian, the Inquisitor had hoped it was just about something the man had said that’d angered some low-lying noble. Instead, it was about the Pavus family (something Cyr knew Dorian loathed to even think about), letter that’d been sent, and a plot to bring Dorian to meet a House Pavus retainer.

He found Dorian leaning over the rail of the library, taking a break from his studies to watch the crows fly overhead in the rookery. Cyr wondered if he posed himself in a position to put his ass on near-tasteless display, or if he just naturally came across like a showoff. “Dorian,” the Inquisitor began, voice low as to not attract attention, “I have a, uh, letter I think you should see.”

“A letter?” The curiosity piqued through his accent, mustache curling in his trademark smirk. “Is it a naughty letter? A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?”

Cyr tried to smile at the jest, but it only turned into a well-meaning grimace. “Not…quite. It’s from your father.”

All the mirth left his voice as he stood straight, face falling flat. “From my father. I see.” His brow gave way to the slightest crease as he struggled to keep his emotions at bay. “And what does Magister Halward want, pray tell?”

“I didn’t look inside,” Cyr said, lifting the unopened envelope to show the man, “but from what Mother Giselle told me, he’d like a meeting.”

The wrinkle on Dorian’s brow deepened. “Show me this letter.”

Cyr handed off the envelope and watched Dorian slit it open and scour the message, the corners of his lips slowly dipping into a heavier scowl the further on he read. His eyes reached the end of the page and roved back to the beginning again as he paced, expression shrouded with distaste. “‘I know my son?’” he read incredulously, beckoning the elf to join him in the alcove. “What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble. This is so typical!” He seemed to swallow a groan of frustration. “I’m willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter.”

“You think your father would actually do that?” Cyr asked in disbelief.

“No.” Dorian paused for a thought. “Although I wouldn’t put it past him.”

With a loud huff, Dorian tossed the letter to his desk, reaching for the cloak he kept draped on his chair. “Let’s go. Let’s meet this so-called ‘family retainer.’ If it’s a trap, we escape and kill everyone! You’re good at that!” Cyr winced slightly under the backhanded admonishment, but the man didn’t pick up on it. “If it’s not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his wit’s end.”

The elf stepped in front of the alcove’s threshold, barring exit until Dorian calmed himself. “Explain the bad blood between you and your family.”

Dorian laughed. “Interesting turn of phrase. It’s simple enough: they don’t care for my choices, nor I for theirs.”

“Because you wouldn’t marry?”

Thoughts stormed in Dorian’s eyes, but he kept them at bay, settling for a spiteful, “That, too.”

“What if it’s not a trap?” Cyr pressed, insistent that he go into this with a level head. “What if it’s well-meaning? I think we should see what your family wants.”

Dorian’s face flared with anger as he snapped, “I didn’t ask what you thought, did I?”

The Inquisitor hesitated, taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. He was familiar with the playfully snide remarks, sure, but this was nothing less than acidic. Once Dorian noticed the elf’s reaction, he blinked a few times, shoulders broadening with his breath, and met Cyr’s gaze with dose of shame. “That…was unworthy. I apologize.”

Cyr swallowed the lump in his throat, letting the apology simmer without acknowledgement. Dorian took the silence as a sign of acceptance and continued, expression falling stern once more. “There’d be no harm in hearing what this man of my father’s has to say. If I don’t like it, however, I want to leave.”

The elf nodded. With what Dorian had mentioned of his family and being from a country as socially-hierarchical as Tevinter, it was understandable that he remained wary. “I’m having trouble imagining a scenario where you’d like anything he’d have to say.”

“So am I,” the man admitted, “but who knows? Maybe my father has something new in mind.”

 

The ride through the upper ledges of the Hinterlands were tense. The Inquisitor had cleared the area of Fade rifts months ago, driven the majority of the templars and mages out of the region, and even slain the high dragon (at the behest of the Bull), but the lack of casual banter on the way almost made Cyrran wish they would run into a group of wayward bandits or angry Red Templars. 

Reaching Redcliffe was as much a relief as it was an anxiety. Dorian and Cyr got off their mounts and walked on through the city, Cyr’s hart snuffing indignantly as he tugged at the reins. Dilsyn was a Dalish-bred hart, half-related to halla, so being surrounded by so many shemlen kept the creature on edge. His steed’s reprimanding bawks the further they trekked into town and her attempts to smack him over the head with her antlers didn’t do much for the group’s overall disposition.

Upon nearing the tavern, designated as the retainer’s meeting spot, they tied their mounts along the repository and affirmed each other’s presences at their side. Dorian entered the building first with Cyr behind him, blinking hard to adjust to the dim glow of the torchlight. There was something off about the place before he could even put a finger on it: it was eerily quiet from even outside the door, with no other steeds waiting to carry their drunken master home. It really only hit when he gazed around the room, its lack of occupants stirring something uneasy in his gut.

“Uh oh,” Dorian said, tone expectedly anxious. “Nobody’s here. That doesn’t bode well.”

They stepped further into the building, Dorian’s hand on his staff and Cyr’s fingers around the hilts of his blades, before a figure silently manifested from the shadows, an accented voice slithering through the silence, calling the mage’s name. Both of them turned, Cyr’s breath hitching, before he noticed Dorian’s brow furrow in contempt. “Father.”

Cyrran blinked in surprise, letting his hands fall to his sides as he gave the man a once-over: a tall figure, posture defined, with notably Tevinter robes, golden accents glinting in the firelight. His expression was strained, but the elf noted the resemblance between father and son. Strong jaw, tanned skin, and ink-black hair cut and styled to perfection. A man of his presence was almost startling to view in direct contrast to the Ferelden tavern where he stood.

“So the whole story about the ‘family retainer’ was just…what?” Dorian asked. “A smoke screen?”

Halward Pavus stepped forward, hands clasped at his waist. “Then you were told.” His gaze fell to Cyr. “I apologize for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for you to be involved.”

“Of course not,” Dorian said, the malice rising in his tone. “Magister Pavus couldn’t come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think?” His head ticked to the side inquisitively, though the rage never left his face. “What is this exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping?” His upper lip curled with something close to a snarl. “Warm family reunion?”

Halward sighed with a shake of his head. “This is how it has always been.”

The elf almost gawked at the man’s blatant patronization of his son. “You tried to go behind his back to get him here. I’d say Dorian has every right to be furious.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dorian said, head snapping to meet Cyr’s gaze. “But maybe you should.”

Halward’s face wrinkled with frustration, his posture tensing as he implored, “Dorian, there’s no need to—”

“I prefer the company of men,” Dorian stated bluntly, voice unexpectedly soft. “My father disapproves.”

The realization hit Cyr like a sack of bricks. He should have known better, but to hear it said so plainly, an actual fact about a person instead of a flaw or an unkept secret, was something he was not used to at all. So the joking, the flirting, the odd glances he’d catch when the other thought he wasn’t looking… Oh no. “You’re…?”

“Are you having trouble keeping up?” Dorian ridiculed, the taunt in his tone stabbing like needles. “Men, and the company thereof. As in sex. Surely you’ve heard of it?”

The elf was at a loss of words. The thoughts raced through his head too fast to keep up with. He didn’t understand everything tugging at his heartstrings in the moment, but it was a little too much for him to handle at once. “I didn’t—”

“This is not what I wanted,” Halward interrupted, rubbing a gloved hand to his forehead.

“I’m never what you wanted, Father,” Dorian spit, his misplaced anger turning back to his father. “Or had you forgotten?” Halward’s head shook wordlessly, unable to conjure a proper response, and Dorian scoffed with a hollow mirth, his tone falling low with resignation. “There’s nothing more to be gained here. Let’s just go.”

“Dorian, please,” Halward said, reaching a single hand out, “if you’ll only listen to me…”

“Why?” The man approached his father with slow, seething steps, gesturing outwardly to expend some of his pent-up anger. “So you can spout more convenient lies?”

Halward’s gaze remained sad and steady, trained on his son. Dorian leaned in and continued, “He taught me to hate blood magic. ‘The resort of a weak mind.’ Those are his words.” He stepped away, back turned to Halward. “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?”

He looked back over his shoulder, meeting his father’s eyes again, and something else rose from the depths of Dorian’s chest, throat thickening with emotion. “You tried to…change me.”

“I only wanted what was best for you.”

“You wanted what was best for you!” Dorian yelled, tears welled in his eyes, his face a sour concoction of rage and betrayal. “For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!”

He turned again from Halward and strode across the tavern, palms pressed to the table to get a handle on his emotions. Cyr immediately went to meet him, only slowing when he realized his pace was too hasty, and hesitating once he was within arm’s reach of the man. He wanted to comfort him with a hand on the back or a nudge of the shoulder, but the chill of Dorian’s tone towards him as well as his father left the elf faltering when it came to reassurance. 

Dorian noticed the Inquisitor’s approach in his peripheral and glanced up at him, expression too muddled to gauge. Without stopping to think, Cyr said, “Don’t leave it like this, Dorian. You deserve an explanation.”

Dorian paused to consider his words a moment, breath heavy in his chest, before he pushed his hands off the table, walked back towards Halward, and growled, “Tell me why you came.”

The magister was shrouded in grief and regret. “If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition…”

“You didn’t,” the younger mage seethed, exasperation and tumult oozing from his lips like pus. “I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do. Once, I had a father who would’ve known that.”

Once again, Dorian turned and started towards the door, poised locked firmly in the notion that this was final. Halward’s voice rose over the footsteps in a rueful lilt, calling out, “Once, I had a son who trusted me.”

The words stopped Dorian in his tracks, his curled fists twitching, threatening to unfurl. Halward continued, “A trust I betrayed.”

That’s when Dorian turned to face his father fully, brow raised with surprise at the sentiment. 

“I only wanted to talk to him,” Halward confessed earnestly, “to hear his voice again, to ask him…to forgive me.”

Dorian reeled in a breath, somewhat lost in the sudden surge of genuine emotion. He looked over to Cyr for guidance, and the elf gestured for the man to approach, giving him a moment of decision before starting towards the exit. Dorian’s walk was cautious and slow, not letting himself fall too quickly into an apology, but he remained there as the Inquisitor left, giving the two their time alone.


	4. a hero's return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor tries to comfort Dorian. Varric's been keeping a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: N/A

Dorian and Cyr didn’t speak again until they returned to Skyhold. The human was leaned up against the alcove window, looking out as the day turned to dusk, only acknowledging the Inquisitor’s approach with a subtle nod and twinge of his features. “He says we’re alike,” the mage said, gaze far from the room. “Too much pride. Once, I would’ve been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now, I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

“What did you mean, that he tried to change you?” Cyr asked warily, not sure if he truly wanted the answer. 

Dorian was silent a moment, thinking over an answer before responding: “It was out of desperation. I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not wanting to spend my entire life screaming on the inside.” He gave a slight shake of the head. “He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me…acceptable. I found out. I left.”

The elf could only stand there, aghast. “That’s despicable.”

“It might’ve worked,” Dorian admitted, glancing over his shoulder. “It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it. If he had, I can’t even imagine the person I would be now.” He returned his gaze to the window. “I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”

Cyr approached carefully, his tone gentle. “Are you alright?”

Dorian’s reply was just as soft; low and exhausted from the emotional toil. “No. Not really.” He finally faced the Inquisitor fully. “Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected, but…it’s something.” He chuckled. “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

Cyr smiled warmly. “Extraordinarily courageous and incredibly strong are the first things that come to mind.”

Dorian’s breath came out his mouth in a wisp, something between a sigh and a song. “You forgot ‘outrageously handsome.’”

The elf laughed. “I would never. I’ve had to stare at your beautiful face all day, tale’lin.”

There was a glimmer of light in Dorian’s cloud-grey eyes, dancing across his face in an instant. It melted down to something more restrained, followed by an aching sadness Cyr knew had been years in the making. “My father never understood. Living a lie…it festers inside of you, like poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart.”

The elf’s smile broadened, eyes crinkling earnestly. “That’s a testament I hope to live by someday.”

At that last word, Dorian’s brow perked. “Someday?”

Cyr’s face fell for a moment—just a moment—but it was more than enough for Dorian to pick up on. “What?”

“Well, now one can’t help but wonder what the Inquisitor is so hesitant to share,” he teased, leaning in with a kittenish smile. “What lurks in the dark depths of your heart, Lavellan? Is there a lover you yearn for but cannot have?”

Despite himself, Cyr’s face began to burn, his ears quirking the slightest ways up. Typically, we was a lot quicker on the draw for a snarky remark or witty comeback, but those were with the flirtatious quips or sexual jokes. Emotional vulnerability on his own end was not something he was equipped to handle. “I’m— Uh—”

Dorian’s smirk spread into a full shit-eating grin. His eyes were ablaze with a mischievous glee, pressing closer in anticipation. “You’re certainly cute when you’re flustered. How could they resist you?”

Now the elf was certain his cheeks were beet red. His tongue fell slack behind his teeth, his heart hammering and his palms going clammy. The stupid thing was that there wasn’t even a forbidden lover. There was no one on his mind that made his stomach flutter with butterflies or his lungs swell with desire. Well, except Dorian. But that was just because he was so good at pushing Cyr’s buttons while keeping up that arrogant charm of his. He had too pretty a face and too nice a body for his own good. With how openly blatant his false advances were, Cyr was surprised no one suspected they were an item yet. Which they weren’t, Cyr had to remind himself. They weren’t an item. That wasn’t something that would happen. That wasn’t something that could happen. It wasn’t— No, he couldn’t— He couldn’t—

In lieu of a legitimate response, the Inquisitor blurted, “Gotta piss!” much too loud to come off as natural and slunk out of the shelved alcove, gaze cast to his feet as he rushed down the stairs. He was certain he heard Dorian call something after him, but the words were completely lost in the pump of blood gushing humiliation through his head. Dirthamen’s dick. What had he done?

Instead of heading to the lavatory, he headed out the castle threshold towards the tavern. There was always a distraction to be found amidst his soldiers, especially when the Chargers took up their usual residence towards the back. As he made his way across the lawn, however, something else caught his attention: a sharp shout and smash from the top floor of the smithy, loud and vibrant enough to cut through its walls. Though the noises didn’t sound too inviting, he knew trouble was best dealt with when nipped in the bud. Besides, literally anything would be better than just being alone and wallowing in his own embarrassment.

Nearing the top floor, Cyr paused halfway up the staircase to stare through the railing spokes at the scene: Cassandra and Varric wrapped up in a violent tussle. Seeing the two at such odds set the elf back in surprise. He knew they weren’t on the best of terms, but he never thought it’d come to a physical confrontation like this.

“You knew where he was all along!” Cassandra screamed as she shoved Varric against a wooden beam, fury radiating off her every angle.

Varric tossed her arms off him, his own frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “You’re damned right I did!”

“You conniving little shit!”

Cassandra threw a punch, sloppy in her rage, and Varric ducked, hustling around a nearby table to put space between him and the Seeker. “You kidnapped me! You interrogated me! What did you expect?”

“Hey!” Cyr shouted, dashing up the remainder of the stairs and putting himself between the brawl. “Enough!”

Cassandra glanced at him, almost aghast. “You’re taking his side?”

“On what?” he asked. “What is this about?”

Varric shook his head in forewarning, a nervous smile sliding over his face. “I haven’t introduced him yet, Seeker.”

The warrior gave one of her infamous grunts, incredulously throwing her hands in the air, the anger palpable even from a distance. “We needed someone to lead this Inquisition,” she said, her temper falling to a simmer as she forced the mediation through verbal means rather than physical. “First, Leliana and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden, but she had vanished. Leliana is still worried sick searching for the Warden.” There was a surprising flicker of sorrow in her eye. “Then, we looked for the Champion of Kirkwall, but he was gone, too. We thought it all connected, but no. It was just you.” Her glare turned to Varric, basically seething. “You kept him from us.”

“The Champion?” the elf wondered aloud, the astonishment audible in his tone. “He’s here?”

“The Inquisition has a leader,” Varric continued, as if the Inquisitor hadn’t spoken. 

“Hawke would have been at the Conclave,” Cassandra pushed. “If anyone could have saved Most Holy—”

“I was protecting my friend!” the dwarf insisted. The Seeker was not swayed.

“Varric is a liar, Inquisitor.” Even though the menace wasn’t meant for him, her voice was venomous enough to send a chill up Cyrran’s spine, almost stepping back in fear from her. “A snake. Even after the Conclave, when we needed Hawke most, Varric kept him secret.”

“He’s with us now!” Varric said. “We’re on the same side!”

“We all know whose side you’re on, Varric.” Every hand gesture and point in her stance worked to accentuate her malice. “It will never be the Inquisition’s.”

“Excuse me,” Cyr interjected, volume raised, “but how is it I wasn’t aware that the Champion is here until this very moment?”

The two were silent for a good few moments, the group’s direction dependent on Varric. The dwarf would’ve grown hot under the collar if said collar weren’t unbuttoned down to his belt. “I was going to introduce you,” he said slowly, testing the waters, “but you were out with Sparkler, and I know he’s going through some family stuff, so I didn’t want to interrupt. I was hoping to catch you some other time, but I guess…”

“You couldn’t have told us about this prior to his arrival?” Cyr asked, mildly accusatory. The crumple of Varric’s brow deepened with guilt, but he didn’t respond, gaze cast downward. 

“No,” Cassandra stated. “Evidently, he could not.”

She gave herself a moment to calm down, the seethe in her teeth melting to a quiet regret. She sighed and walked back towards another table, leaning over with folded arms and a hunched back. “I must not think of what could have been. We have so much at stake.” Her head fell further. “Go, Varric.”

“Seeker…” the dwarf began, but he was cut off.

“Just…go.”

He glanced ruefully from Cassandra to Cyr, his footsteps heavy as he started back down the creaking stairs. He paused before his head dipped below the floorboards, a little more defiance flaring on his features. “Know what I think? If Hawke had been at the temple, he’d be dead, too.” The last phrase came out a spiteful grumble, barely audible, but just as piercing as an arrow: “You people have done enough to him.”

Now Cyr was left alone with the Seeker, swallowing in her retroactive grief, and, once again, he was at an emotional loss. From what was said, he could extrapolate that Cassandra still blamed him for the death of the Divine. She probably didn’t intend to, but grief and trauma aren’t logical creatures. They crave blame for anyone who can bear the burden and hunger for a justice that can never be served. Demons in their own right. It wasn’t surprising that she still suffered at their hands, but it didn’t make Cyr’s toll any easier to pay.

“I…believed him,” the Seeker said softly. “He spun his story for me, and I swallowed it. If I’d just explained what was at stake…” She stood straight and faced the Inquisitor. “If I’d just made him understand…”

He was silent, uncertain of a response.

“But I didn’t, did I?” she continued, plopping down on the nearest chair, head in her hands. “I didn’t explain why we needed Hawke. I’m such a fool.”

The elf sat across from her, slow to answer in fear of the wrong reply. “Have you taken a look around lately, Cassandra? This is the Inquisition. We’re all fools here.”

She let out a choked chuckle. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He gave a lopsided shrug. “Less alone, maybe.”

The Seeker took a deep breath, regrouping her thoughts and letting the fluster in her chest fizzle out. “I want you to know,” she said, leaning forward, “I have no regrets.”

He cocked his head. “What?”

“Maybe if we’d found Hawke or the Warden, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you.” She straightened, fiery gaze latching right onto his. “But he did. You’re…not what I’d pictured,”—Cyr snorted with a laugh, and Cassandra gave a small smile in return—“but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I know less than nothing.”

The elf allowed himself a restrained grin. “Is this you admitting I’m smarter than you?”

Cassandra gave another grunt and punched him in the shoulder. Though it was playful, he knew there was bound to be bruising by tomorrow. She folded her hands against her palms and stared down at them pensively, considering her next move regarding Varric. “I presume you will be meeting with the Champion, then?”

Cyr sighed loudly, unsure how to conceptualize the fact that the Champion of Kirkwall was here to see him. If even a fraction of what the elf had heard about Hawke was true, he swore he might swoon at the sight of the man. “I suppose. Any advice on meeting a hero of legend?”

The warrior gave a thin smile. “The same could be asked of meeting you, Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven translation: 
> 
> tale'lin = "pretty boy"
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: the Elven language is an English cipher and doesn't have a full vocabulary, so a lot of the Elven written in this story is going to be composed from my own knowledge of linguistics and this very helpful site: https://lingojam.com/ElvenDAI


	5. a few drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Champion and the Inquisitor go for drinks and find out they have quite a bit in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: vaguely-implied trauma

In the wake of that horrid exchange with Dorian, meeting the Champion of Kirkwall went better than Cyr expected.  He’d read the Tale of the Champion; he knew Hawke’s trials and accomplishments, despite their evident embellishment from Varric.  He should’ve known better than to put forward any sort of assumption, considering his personal experience with being a beacon of change many held in a much higher regard than he deserved, but Hawke was not how Cyr imagined.  He was a wisecrack. He volleyed every serious sentiment to come out of his (or anyone’s) mouth with a smile and a joke. Cyr hung around plenty of people that knew how to make light of a dark situation, but hearing it from someone else who understood the burden of responsibility like this was quite refreshing.  

In the war room, Hawke had explained that there were some squabbles going on within the Grey Warden ranks, and he had an informant who would be able to get them intel.  This informant had recently moved to a safe location in the hills beyond Crestwood and was remaining in hiding; evidently, the Wardens didn’t much appreciate their loose tongue.  The Champion and Inquisitor were to meet the rogue agent for reconnaissance and, honestly, it was still a little difficult for Cyr to believe. He was being held to the same esteem as the  _ Champion of Kirkwall.   _ Hearing it in some long-winded speech by a noble attempting to get on his good side was one thing.  Actually considering the fact he was going to be travelling, fighting, and working alongside the Champion was completely different.  Maybe it was just the fact there was an entire  _ novel  _ written about the man, but still.  Hawke had single-handedly stopped a Qunari invasion and saved an entire Free March city in the midst of a mage uprising.  Being compared to him was more than a little nerve-wracking.

Though Hawke wanted to scout ahead and meet the Inquisitor’s party at the informant’s hideout, Varric insisted he take a break.  The man had only just arrived at Skyhold. He needed some rest. After some back-and-forth, Hawke reluctantly agreed to stay one night longer.  It wasn’t a surprise when Varric and Hawke started for the tavern, but it was a bit of a shock when Varric called for Cyr to join them. Didn’t Varric want some time to catch up with Hawke one-on-one?  No, apparently not. The dwarf was absolutely adamant that the Inquisitor join them for drinks. Cyr’s stomach still fluttered with the anxiety of meeting the Champion (and, of course, his previous exchange with Dorian), but if Varric was anything, it was persuasive.  With a shaky sigh, the elf relented and followed after the pair.

The Champion sat down beside Varric in a far-corner table, motioning for Cyr to join them as they ordered a round.  Typically, the elf wasn’t too fond of drinking in the Herald’s Rest. The shemlen shit tasted like piss, and inebriation usually hit him with a near-total loss of inhibition.  As Inquisitor, he was supposed to be in control. Then again, after the day’s emotional events, he felt he deserved a night off from being Inquisitor. Just one night. Just this once.  He called for a bottle of Cabot’s best Tevene wine and joined the two at their table.

The conversation began casually: lighthearted anecdotes, playful complaints, hyper-exaggerated stories from Varric and either Cyr or Hawke correcting the details.  Once Bull noticed the three, he plopped himself down beside Cyr and introduced himself to the Champion. (“You’re almost as big as the Arishok,” Garrett teased, and Bull quipped back, “I make up for it where it counts,” with a wink.)  With the tavern’s attention drawn to the loquacious qunari, soon Sera was in on the discussion. The night lumbered on into a bumble of bellowing laughter and deep, messy swigs. It’d gone on for so long that Cyr didn’t even notice he was drunk.

The elf downed the rest of his glass and cringed, grabbing the bottle by the neck to read the label.  “The shit’s so bitter,” he said to no one in particular, grumbling as he poured himself another serving.  “Who actually  _ likes  _ this stuff?”

“Fenris told me the original recipe is distilled from the blood of slaves,” Hawke responded, grabbing for the bottle to look for himself.  “Or the tears. Or maybe sweat. Whichever’s worse.”

Sera grimaced and groaned in disgust, but Varric piped up, “Where is Fenris, anyway?  I would’ve thought he’d want to come with you.”

Something sparked in the Champion’s eyes; a sadness of sorts, dripping longing and guilt.  “He would have. If I’d told him.” He went for another drink of mead. “He’s out chasing slavers toward Antiva.  As far as he knows, I’m just in Ferelden for a place to hide, not to join the Inquisition.” He took a deep breath, as if to steady his nerves.  “I don’t want him out here. It’s too dangerous.”

Varric chuckled.  “You think Broody can’t handle himself?”

Hawke shook his head, still somber.  “It’s not that. It’s just, you know.   _ Me.” _

Varric’s face fell with understanding.  The table was quiet, and Hawke ran his fingers through his tousled hair to diffuse his tension, unsure how to continue.  Cyr had to pause a moment to consider his words, trying to recall bits of the Tale of the Champion that discussed Fenris and Hawke.  He couldn’t seem to bring them to mind. “So,” he began, attempting to filter out the awkward lull, “you and Fenris are…friends?”

Hawke laughed aloud.  “A little more than that, I’d hope.”

Cyr leaned forward a bit too excitedly.  “You together? As in,  _ together?” _

Varric and Bull joined in on the laughter, and the qunari jabbed Cyr in the ribs.  “You  _ really  _ wanted to see what makes the Champion so legendary, eh, Boss?”

A flush of embarrassment raced through the elf’s veins, but it was chased with a wave of drunken giggles, too many drinks deep to dwell on a jest.  He smacked Bull across the bicep and half-shouted,  _ “No!   _ I’s just wonderin’!  People only talk about the battles and the stuff that makes legends.  You don’t hear ‘bout the stuff that makes legends  _ people.” _

“Yes!” Hawke yelled much louder than necessary, slamming his drink to the table with enthusiasm.  “Exactly! No one cares about what makes me normal. They don’t consider me an actual person.”

“Oh, boo hoo,” Sera chimed in tauntingly, “the rich, handsome hero gets treated like a rich, handsome hero.  The guy wiping your arse really feels for your plight.”

For a moment, Hawke’s face contorted with hurt and confusion.  “I wipe my own arse.”

“No, I get it!” Cyr added eagerly, nearly jumping from his seat to accentuate his passion.  “You’re the hero! You’re supposed to be the one to save everyone, but everyone forgets that you’re still just one guy _.   _ When you can’t save the world, they  _ blame _  you!”

“People get mad at everything, don’t they?” Hawke agreed, slinging his arms over the table to get closer to the conversation.  “You do something, they get mad. You do nothing, they get mad. You look the wrong way at the wrong noble, and they want your head on a bloody pike!”

“You’re not really  _ you  _ anymore, yeh?” Cyr put forth with a squint and a nod, completely focusing all his attention on Hawke.  Everyone else at the table seemed so distant. They didn’t get it. Not really. “To them, you’re the Champion, but that’s not who you are, right?”

“And you’re not the Inquisitor,” Hawke concurred.  He reached a hand to Cyr’s arm, patting it affirmingly.  “You’re just a Dalish caught up in this mess. I’m just a Ferelden who ran away from the Blight.  It just happened, and we didn’t have control. They call you the Inquisitor, and they call me the Champion, but that’s not who we are.  We’re just people.”

Cyr didn’t realize how much emotional weight those words had dredged up from his chest until he sucked in a breath and his throat was choked up, tears biting at the corners of his eyes.  “We’re just people,” he echoed with a sniffle, unable to keep the grin from his face. In a rush of adrenaline, he slammed his glass to the table as if it were a mug and cracked the bottom of the cup all the way up the stem and repeated, “WE’RE JUST PEOPLE!” in a shout that almost shook the tavern.

At his outburst, the entire table cooed for him to calm, a few hands pressing his shoulders back down to his seat.  He laughed and whipped away the one hand from his right—Bull’s—but glancing to his left, he was surprised to see Dorian gripping his shoulder.  “You’ve hit the drinks a little heavy, haven’t you?” he asked with a smile, mustache curling up to tickle his cheeks.  _ Fen’harel masa,  _ why was that so cute?

“No,” Cyr argued.  The sway of his vision when he dropped too fast to his seat begged to differ.  “Am just passionate.”

“Are you?” Dorian pushed teasingly.  He nudged the elf to make room for him to slide onto the bench beside him, his body pressed close.  “I’d like to see where that passion lies.”

“Betchyou would,” Cyr agreed with a tick of the brow.  Dorian’s skin was hot against his own, his grin slick enough to charm the pants right off any drunk bastard in this tavern, but Cyr didn’t really have the wherewithal to consider intention at the moment.  He was just having fun with their banter. “As anyone would. You said it before: who could resist me?”

The mage laughed, sharp and deep and alight with warmth, and Cyrran’s heart jumped at the sound.   _ Mythal lanaste.   _ The elf didn’t like to admit it, but he truly was a sucker for a handsome face.

“I like being ‘just people,’” Hawke continued to the rest of the group, bringing another drink to his grinning lips.  “You were right, Varric. Staying for the night was just what I needed.”

“We’re glad to have ya, Hawke,” the dwarf replied.  “I’d call a toast, but then everyone in the tavern would want a chat with the Champion.”

“Oh, I  _ hate  _ that,” Hawke responded, fervently shaking his head.  “Just that moment when all heads turn toward you and everyone in the room realizes who you are.  It’s almost worse than the Maker-damned darkspawn, I swear.”

“You know what’s the worst part?” Cyr said with another gulp of his wine.  “The  _ touchin’.   _ Everybody wants to touch you.  Thousand hands on your back like they don’t know what ‘personal space’ is”

“I hate being touched,” Garrett said.  His brow furrowed down to a permanent knit, back hunched in a preemptive defense of the memory of hands on his shoulders.  “Honest to Andraste, Fen’s the only one who can touch me without me feeling like I’ll vomit.”

Varric’s gaze to Hawke turned soft, like he wasn’t sure what the man was talking about.  Cyr only clapped his hands in agreement and nodded along excitedly. “I get that too! Someone touches the back of my neck, or that little spot by the small of my back,”—he reached around to the crest of his spine, right above the tailbone—“and I panic.”  He shivered at the thought, clenching his muscles in a quick mimicry. “Worst feelin’ in the world.”

A dynamic in the group began to shift.  Sera’s face scrunched in confusion, but the typical snark accompanying her uncertainty didn’t surface.  Bull’s head fell downward toward the table, a kind of somber understanding settling in his leading limbs.  Varric’s eyes drifted between Cyr and Hawke, not knowing where to focus or what to make of the information.  Dorian’s gaze remained on the Inquisitor, blinking back a bout of indeterminate concern. But Hawke and Cyr were wrapped in their own little world, refusing to acknowledge anyone but each other in the moment that they could share their anxieties.

“The back is the worst,” the Champion agreed.  “Something about the not-knowing— And then, the urge to run, to just run and run and run—”

“I just wanna start kickin’ and screamin’,” the elf continued with a misplaced laugh, “make a whole scene to get everyone off.   _ Ar ajua dir’vhen’an a’Mythal,  _ takes all my concentration not to break down right then and there.”

“I almost cut a man’s hands off for it once,” Hawke relayed with a smile.  “The Duke of Wildervale. He touched too low, and then—”

He made a motion as if unsheathing a knife from its hilt, grabbing an invisible wrist, and slicing the hand from its arm.  Cyr guffawed, but Varric didn’t seem as amused. The dwarf leaned in close to Hawke and whispered something the Inquisitor couldn’t hear.  Hawke’s expression twinged with a slight offense, but he seemed caught between thoughts.

Meanwhile, Dorian leaned over the table to catch Cyrran’s eye, his features notched with worry.  “Lavellan,” he began, the tenderness in his voice enough to bring Cyr to a pause, “perhaps it would be best if you take your leave for the night, yes?”

“Eh, Vint, let him stay a while longer,” Bull said, catching Dorian’s eye over the elf’s head.  “He’s got a lot to say. Let him say it while the booze is at work.”

“Yeah, I gotta lotta say!” Cyr agreed with an ardent bobble of the head.   _ “Tel’lasem dirtha ahn ar nuvena, dal thelalen juenathe nuveir!  Galin edhlasa!” _

“Oh, fantastic, now he’s speaking Elven,” Dorian said to Bull.  “The  _ booze  _ is working well, it seems.”

“Actually,” Varric piped in, nudging Hawke toward the edge of the bench to stand, “we’re gonna hit the hay.”

“Varric  _ does  _ know my limits a little better than I,” Hawke admitted with a lopsided grin, wobbling when he brought himself to his feet.  He had to put a hand on the dwarf’s head just to steady himself. “It’s been a while since I’ve drank with friends. This was fun, Lord Lavellan.”

Cyr’s heart swelled at the mention of  _ friends.   _ He was the Champion’s friend.  The  _ Champion of Kirkwall. _   Was his  _ friend!   _ “I enjoyed myself, Lord Lightweight,” he teased.  He raised his cracked glass to incite a toast. “To a good night’s rest and a peaceful journey tomorrow.”

Hawke smiled a little wider, took one last swig of his mead, and clinked his mug against the wine glass.  “To sleep and peace. What a wishful hope.”

As Hawke and Varric made their way towards the door, Dorian seemed to ease a bit, though he still radiated an anxious tension. He went to put a hand on Cyrran’s shoulder, but upon realizing his action, he recoiled.  “Don’t you think you ought to get some rest as well, Lavellan?”

Cyr hesitated before a response, cocking his head back to get a better look at the man encompassing his vision.  This wasn’t much like him. He typically enjoyed a rowdy night of drinks with loud conversation and disagreeable topics.  It was sort of his  _ thing,  _ being a Tevinter pariah and all.  (He’d said once before that it added to his charm, and quite honestly, Cyr couldn’t agree more.)  So where was the merriment and his love of debauchery? Something was clearly worrying him more than just the Inquisitor’s wellbeing.  

“Ah’right,” the elf conceded, taking one last moment to down the last of his glass.  He handed the empty cup to Bull. “Mamae says it’s time for bed, nah?”

“Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?” Dorian joked as Cyr shoved the bench away by the back of the knees and stood.  “Or perhaps prepare you a late-night snack?”

“You serious?  That actually sounds quite good right about now.”

The mage laughed and started for the exit, bidding Cyr to follow.  He hadn’t been expecting Dorian to actually lead him to bed, but hey, he wouldn’t complain.  He liked the man’s company.

The way back across the lawn and up the hold was slow with Cyr lollygagging behind Dorian’s long strides, either distracted by some far-off noise or gazing up at the man’s ass.  Dorian had to keep calling his attention back to walking, every sardonic comment met with a tipsy giggle smeared off of Cyr’s lips. Though the man tried to hide it, Cyr could see him smiling when he turned away.

Once they reached the door to the Inquisitor’s quarters, Dorian halted mechanically, his muscles taut and brow creased.  Though he opened the door and held it for Cyr—“What a gentleman,” the elf commented with a sarcastic smile—there was something else behind his eyes that let Cyrran know he didn’t want to leave.  Not yet. “What’s wrong, Dorian?” he asked, backing up to the staircase to invite some more privacy. “You’ve not been yourself tonight.”

After a half-second pause, the man supplied, “It’s your accent.  I’ve never heard you drunk enough to speak like that.”

“Oh.”  His accent?  Cyr hadn’t realized he’d been talking different.  “I guess ‘cause my clan’s been up in the Free Marches for the past few years, it just comes more natural-like.”

“I believe I recall you once saying that any clan travelling up by the Imperium had a, what was it,” Dorian jeered playfully, “‘a Keeper dumber than a nug?’”

“Well, we don’t go skirtin’ ‘round the borders!” Cyr defended with a laugh.  “Meeting with other clans, you just pick up the brouge, but I,”—he cleared his throat—“I can, uh, just talk like normal.”

“Oh, don’t change on my account,” the mage insisted with another pretty smile.  “I find it quite endearing, to be honest. A bit brutish, perhaps, but it brings its own charm.”

Cyr’s face brightened with the compliment, his stomach simmering with joy and apprehension.  Something genuine flickered across Dorian’s face, but the elf was too slow on the uptake to register just what it was.  “I’m serious,” the elf pushed, voice softer. “What’s bothering you?”

The man blinked in subtle surprise, his lips parting with a gentle exhale.  The grey of his eyes flashed black under the dim light of the torches. “I…” he began pensively, his gaze searching Cyr’s face for the next words to say.  “That…talk about touching. I’m only curious what it was about.”

The elf’s face fell.  The light flutter of his stomach paled back to a churning bile.  “Ah. Yes. Well—”

“Not that I’m insistent you tell me,” Dorian interrupted quickly, his open palms up in defense.  “I’ve no right to know everything about you that you wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing. I only mean that I—”  He turned and coughed into his fist. “It’s just…mildly worrisome.”

Memories stirred at the back of Cyr’s head, crawling down his limbs like vines to pull his muscles tight with phantom pains, but Dorian’s response drew a slight smile back to his features.  “I appreciate the concern,” he said earnestly, “but there’s no need for it. Am just, uh.” He shrugged. “Weird, I guess.”

Dorian’s head cocked upwards, clearly dubious, but after another moment, he let the expression drop and concluded with a sigh.  “That you are. Just know that if you’d like to talk about any sensitive matters, you have a smattering of confidants to turn to.”  His gaze lingered persistently with Cyr’s. “Including me, if you so choose.”

The elf’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.  “Thank you, Dorian. I’ll keep it in mind.”

With that, the two bid their farewells for the night, and Cyr proceeded up the stairs to his quarters, head wobbling and limbs unsteady.  As he undressed, his skin itched with spiders tracing burns down his body, the hair standing on end at the past’s dwelling sting. Yanking off his shirt, he inspected his left hand—the haggard gash glowing a sickly green against his palm, tingling with the discomforting sensations of constant pins and needles, but the sight that truly perturbed him was on the opposite side of his arm.  Deep crimson vallaslin etched up to his knuckles. Ironbark tattoos weaving over the veins of his hands, branching up his arm into the runes of Falon’din, the roots twisting into the intricate swirls of halla horns as it crested over the shoulder. Examining the drawings, his right hand instinctively travelled up to the vallaslin on his face: the symbolic swoop of a raven’s wings across his forehead, the fern-like spread of runes across his cheeks, the markings reaching down the bridge of his chin, nose, and neck indicative of Dirthamen.  His fingers traced over the side of his jaw, where he could still feel the bump of a faded scar. The day he got that scar— Many others, but not here—

With a yank of his gut, he cringed the thoughts back into murkier waters and threw on his sleepwear.  The light fabric clung on the joints and points of his frame, tickling lavishly across the chill up his spine.  He didn’t have to think about it. Not now. Not ever again. It didn’t matter. It would never come up. It didn’t matter.  He drew in a hefty bout of breath, shook the memories from his mind, and crawled into bed, content to sleep off his intoxicated daze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: considering the Dalish canonically have varying accents (DA:O = American, DAII!Merrill = Welsh, other DAII Dalish = Irish), I'm having fun with the worldbuilding. Though my Lavellans speak with clearer British accents around shems, with each other, they've come to speak with a slight Scottish accent (Starkhaven is known for the Scottish accents). This is the intended accent for when Cyrran gets drunk. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Elven translation: 
> 
> Fen'harel masa = "Fen'harel's ass"
> 
> Mythal lanaste = "Mythal's mercy"
> 
> “Ar ajua dir’vhen’an a’Mythal." = "I swear to Mythal."
> 
> “Tel’lasem dirtha ahn ar nuvena, dal thelalen juenathe nuveir!” = "I can't say what I want, or someone will declare war!"
> 
> “Galin edhlasa!” = "Everybody sucks!"
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: the Elven language is an English cipher and doesn't have a full vocabulary, so a lot of the Elven written in this story is going to be composed from my own knowledge of linguistics and this very helpful site: https://lingojam.com/ElvenDAI


End file.
